metal sun
by S.N. Rainsworth
Summary: how do i know you love me? / percyannnabeth in tartarus. moa spoilers. drabble-ish.


_i wanted to write a little drabble on percy and annabeth falling into tartarus at the end of moa, but it turned into this. ah, well.  
_

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**metal sun**

/

_how do i know you love me? _

somehow the worst fear is that of losing our greatest weapon. in the times of hardship - in the times of ease, in the days of livelihood and until death do us part. the most happiest things are our weakness, and then they are our torturers. how do you live, knowing things that you're not supposed to know, understanding the person you will become in due time? how must it feel, to watch as your time ticks, to breathe knowing that one day your breath will be the end of you.

darkness is infallible, encompassing, innumerate. it's why so many people take such comfort in it - in sleep, in unconsciousness, in dreams, in the night. something about the endlessness, the solidity comforts people. whispers to them (_that even though everyone else has left you, i'm still here darling, i still love you_) mentions of sin and simplicity.

so many go so far to reach that one comfort. they've lost the shield that society has created for you - this little petite, primped bubble, perfectly round and stable. telling you what to do, who to be, how to react, how to live, how to die. those are the people that have realized how much everyone has controlled us and how much control we have of ourselves (_sometimes enough, sometimes never_).

percy doesn't do either - doesn't take comfort in the night, doesn't seek atrocity in the day. he pretends instead, makes illusions, daydreams (_because dreams, they haunt haunt haunt_) or perhaps he interdreams? the day is too short and the night is too long and there is no inbetween, so shall he call it the interdream? shall he name his own place, think of it as his own rooftop, shield himself from his own raining guilt?

tartarus doesn't taste like death, not quite, not really, but more like bitter blood - the staunchy, rancid taste of burned iron and crackling fire. it's not exactly hell, nor is it heaven, nor is it limbo nor is it a ramification nor is it pleasure nor is it pain. percy isn't quite sure what it is, exactly. he's pretty sure that his vocabulary isn't that wide enough for him to properly explain, but please - please, stick along, because he'll so dearly try, he so dearly will.

so they say hell and you think of fire, you think of demons, you think of them pulling you underwater and your lungs filling to the brim. so they say hell and you think of hot rocks and every sin you've ever done, flashing in front of your eyes, and you think of sustenance in a barren land, and you think of your skin peeling off your muscles, your nerves set ablaze, your blood pooling at your feet. or perhaps you think of icy tundras in the winter - dead soil, frozen ground, white sky.

so they say hell and you think _hell_.

annabeth doesn't last long. percy tries to keep her fluttering breath in her throat, push it down to her lungs, but they refuse to cooperate. she's tough, strongest at first, limping along as they scour the grey matter. her eyes scan and pierce and blend, glance once at percy and then at herself and then at their situation. time is nothing but essence, droplets of golden ichor in their hands, sinking into particles of dust dancing at their feet. many times they sit as the grey fades to black, ash and soot, like the inside of a coal mine or a volcano.

percy kisses her cheek, then her mouth, rubbing her knuckles all the while. it's supposed to be comforting, but after a moment he tastes something salty and realizes that she's crying, crying, crying

(_what are we going to do i can't breathe in here i can't think help me)_

so instead percy hugs her close to hear her ragged breaths, matches them with his, tries to show that they're one, they're okay, they'll _be just fine_ -

after a quick not-really-so-but-sort-of nap annabeth shrieks, screams so loud that percy's eardrums feel like they're about to shatter. her eyes are wide, so wide, that she looks like she's hallucinating that she's imagining things as she digs her fingers so deep into percy's shoulders that they draw blood. _oh my god percy help me percy percy please please he's going to get me percy - !_

percy tries to help her, he really does, but she kicks and screams and fights imaginary demons, enemies in her head. that's when percy realizes what this place does to you - it shows you all the monsters under your bed, all the crawlies in your closet. nothing's real here but at the same time everything is real, so real, so very real.

who knows how long later - it feels like years - percy holds annabeth in his hands as she cries, battered fingers pressing away the tears in her eyes, trying to wipe away the vestigial evidence of weakness. percy murmurs in her hair, wipes dried blood from her fingernails, and annabeth's breathing calms until her eyes aren't foggy anymore.

/

they walk for a while, and it's tiring.

each footstep is moving to the middle of nowhere. there's no left, right, up, down, far away and up close. either your demons were there walking with you or they were too bored to care. once in awhile, percy hears screaming - bloodcurdling, god-awful screaming. it screeches like a harpy and he characterizes it in his head somehow, this screaming, echoing as it ends, broken sobs laced at the inhuman end. more than once, he wonders if he'd ever end up like that. annabeth tries to guide them, maps tartarus in her head, but all of it is too much - she has more demons than he, more responsibilities, more regrets. they take form and cling to her, begging to be revived, begging to live one more in her soul.

percy's stomach hurts often, and he throws up blood.

sometimes it's really hot in hell. which is sort of stupid to say because it's _hell_, you know? when you think of hell you think - think of fire and flame and scorched earth. but it really isn't, it's more of a neutral chill, a goosebump prodding underneath your skin. but sometimes, sometimes it's like they're standing in a volcano, about to erupt, feet planted firmly on magma, waiting for the final blow. that's how hot it is - like they're standing on the surface of a quickly heating metal, over the surface of the sun, burning burning burningburningburning_burning_ -

_percy_, annabeth pants, _let's stop. i can't..._ her words trail off, and percy nods wordlessly. his voice doesn't work anymore, nothing louder than a whisper, nothing louder than a muffled cry. perhaps this is him as he is on the inside, instead of the confident leader, the spokesman, the hero.

_we're gonna get out_, he starts, sounding strained, _and then when we do, i'm going to take you to the greatest date of your life, got it? so hold on, annabeth._

_we could get married_, annabeth laughs, coughing all the while. _wouldn't that be something_.

_a beach wedding_, percy agrees instead, finding the idea of annabeth in a glittering grey dress appealing, smile so wide that it threatens to break her face. he wants to see her smile. _somewhere in the mediterranean. we'll have our family there and only family, and then we'll get an island on some discreet coast and live there for the rest of our lives. you can design all the homes. _

annabeth's head falls against his shoulder, and she presses the pads of her fingers against percy's scarred palm. absentmindedly, he turns her hand over in his and links their fingers together loosely. _i'd like that_, she murmurs. _a greek house with arches and columns and a large indoor bath. granted, that's more roman than anything, but -_

_now you're getting in the spirit,_ percy chuckles, and annabeth follows. soon after a quiet silence, she says, _i'm not going to last, am i?_ and it's a grim, bitter truth that both of them know - she's not going to make it.

percy's hold on her arm tightens, and silently he forced down the blood coming up his throat.

/

annabeth dies the next day, face marred with tear tracks. he doesn't exactly know what day or time or morning it is, but he wishes he did, so he could turn back time and go to a moment where none of this was real or existing or able. her body is cold and she's lifeless in his hands, but he doesn't know what else to do, so he just sits in the ever-lasting darkness, breath caught in his throat, wishing to be broken free like annabeth is.

_she's not supposed to die, _he says loudly to himself._she's not supposed to die. she's not supposed to die!_

percy thinks that this is where he begins to see things, things that annabeth saw, the shapes taking form in shadows, the cries, the screams the _fear _-

her pulls her up and carries her in his arms, stands and limps forward, screaming, screaming, screaming.

(_she wasn't supposed to die_)

annabeth is cold, so cold, and her chest doesn't move up and down, her eyes don't open, she doesn't talk to percy about starting a new life in the mediterranean or having kids or visiting her parents or anything - anything at all would've been fine, but she doesn't say a word, not a word, not a sound.

percy doesn't feel much of anything anymore - in all honestly, he's just numb, numb, and he throws up one more time but nothing comes out. he's empty.

after forever, after the stars and the galaxies and the sea of night, he comes upon a door - a large, gigantic door, a door of massive proportions that goad him, haunt him, whispers the images of death in his ear, death in his hands, death by his own. percy leans against the door and slides down, holds annabeth's stilled breath to his chest, and cries silent tears, muffled in her limp hair. _how do i know you love me?_ he says, and closes his eyes, wanting to join her in her sleep, wanting to steal away to a side (_dark or light, night or day?_) and so death is the easiest way out even when life pleads him to stay.

and so that's what percy does, falls asleep on the doors of death, a gateway that he doesn't intend to cross (_but he so, so wants to, because they whisper - whisper, darling i'm here, darling i love you_).

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**.:.**


End file.
